White Horse
by beargirl1393
Summary: Sherlock should have known it was too good to be true. Why had he deluded himself into thinking otherwise. Implied Sherlock/John and John/Mary. Rated T because I'm paranoid and not 100% sure for the ratings. It might be K .


A/N: I'm still working on my other stories, but this idea came to me and I couldn't help it. For anyone who read Outtakes, the new chapter will be up soon. Also, I'm working on another Sherlock fic, involving a ghost and everyone's favorite consulting detective. Inspired, as the title suggests, bt "White Horse" by Taylor Swift. I own nothing.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his chair in 221b, trying to stop thinking. His head was pounding and he felt horrible, yet the slideshow of images he wanted nothing more than to delete was playing out in front of his eyes whenever he closed them, making sleep impossible. He turned on the telly, needing something to distract him. There was a concert on whatever channel it had been left on. A young woman, blonde, reasonably pretty, was singing. American, going by her accent. The song she was singing came to an end, and a new one began. This one, Sherlock shuddered as she sang. This song reminded him what he wished to forget.

_Say you're sorry,_

_That face of an angel comes out _

_Just when you need it to._

**He** had always been able to fool Sherlock with that face. Everyone else, he noticed right away. But with **Him**…

_As I pace back and forth_

_All this time_

'_Cause I honestly believed in you._

Sherlock had been fooled as well, and he spent no small amount of time pacing because of it, trying to decide what it was about **Him** that had caused Sherlock to take leave of his senses. He had believed that everything was alright, that they were alright, but now…

_Holding on, the days drag on_

_Stupid girl, I should've known, I should've known_

Sherlock had been stupid, exceptionally so, believing **His** lies. He really should have known.

_I'm not a princes; this ain't a fairytale._

_I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet,_

_Lead her up the stairwell._

_This ain't Hollywood, this is a small town,_

_I was a dreamer before you went and let me down._

_Now it's too late for you and your white horse _

_To come around._

He had believed that everything was perfect, indeed, like a fairytale. **He** had swept Sherlock off his feet entirely, which was why he had fallen so far when he found out. He had dreamed of what it could be like, what it would be like, and he had suffered for that. **He **had attempted to contact Sherlock several times, but it wouldn't work. It's far too late for that; those dreams are dead and buried.

_Baby, I was naïve, _

_Got lost in your eyes,_

_I never really had a chance._

It had been disturbingly easy to lose himself in those blue eyes, so warm and comforting. No matter how bad things got, even in his blackest mood, those eyes and that smile could make him feel better. He had been terribly naïve.

_My mistake, I didn't know_

_To be in love you had to fight_

_To have the upper hand._

Their first fight had shocked him; he hadn't realized how badly **His** disapproval could cut him. He hated the fighting, the arguing, but it had seemed to be par for the course. He hadn't realized that he had to try to have the upper hand. He thought they were supposed to work together.** He** had shown Sherlock just how wrong he was.

_I had so many dreams, about you and me,_

_Happy endings, now I know,_

_I'm not a princess; this ain't a fairytale,_

_I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet,_

_Lead her up a the stairwell._

_This ain't Hollywood, this is a small town,_

_I was a dreamer before you went and let me down._

_Now it's too late for you and your white horse,_

_To come around._

Sherlock had whole wings in his mind palace devoted to** Him**. Filled to the brim with anything to do with **Him**, from how he liked his tea to how long it took him to get ready in the mornings. He had rooms in those wings filled with dreams of their future. Those dreams had turned to ash and dust, the only remnants of the future he had dared to hope for.

_And there you are on your knees._

_Begging for forgiveness, begging for me,_

_Just like I always wanted,_

_But I'm so sorry_

There were dozens of missed calls and unread texts from **Him** on Sherlock's phone. He couldn't answer them, couldn't read them, but he couldn't delete them either. He couldn't delete **Him** at all, but that didn't mean he would have anything to do with **Him**.

'_Cause I'm not your princess; this ain't a fairytale,_

_I'm gonna find someone, someday, who might actually treat me well._

_This is a big world, that was a small town,_

_There in my review mirror disappearing now._

_And it's too late for you and your white horse,_

_Now it's too late for you and your white horse,_

_To catch me now._

He had considered leaving London, temporarily or permanently, he wasn't sure, but it seemed like a good plan. The Work could wait; he needed to get away. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of **Him**. If he left, he would no longer be haunted by the ghosts and shadows of what could have been. At least, that's what he told himself as he began to pack. Most of it would go in storage; he would only take the essentials with him. Time to start fresh, without **His** memory dogging his heels.

_Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa-oh,_

_Try and catch me now, whoa-oh._

_It's too late,_

_To catch me now._

There was a knock at the door as he was gathering the last of his belongings, the ones he was taking with him; the rest had been sent to a storage locker. Mrs. Hudson was put out that she would have to find a new lodger, but he couldn't stay, not anymore. **He** hadn't noticed, had been out visiting **His** sister, telling her the good news no doubt.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Sherlock froze with his bag over his shoulder. He was hoping to leave before **His** return; he didn't know if he was strong enough to face **Him** right now.

"Sherlock, I'm…back," **He** said, trailing off as **He** looked around, noticing the lack of stuff in the normally crowded sitting room. There were no more experiments, no more skull, and only **His **books adorned the shelves. "Sherlock?"

He cleared his throat as he met those blue eyes, confusion swirling in their depths. "I can't do this anymore John, I'm sorry," he forced out, moving to pick up his coat.

"What?" John asked, looking at his flatmate and former lover with surprise and shock written clearly on his face.

"I heard about you and Mary," Sherlock said, forcing himself to keep his voice level. "Apparently I was the last to know, as I heard about it from Mycroft."

"Sherlock," John sighed, "It was a onetime thing. It didn't mean anything…"

"To you maybe," he replied, tying his scarf.

"I'm sorry," John said, blue eyes wide and radiating a sincerity that Sherlock couldn't trust. "What can I do…?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said curtly, picking his bag up once more and turning towards the door. "It's too late for you to do anything. Good-bye John."


End file.
